I transmigrated to the wasteland. While everyone else was desperately fighting to survive, I was busy issuing loans.
One dose of antibiotics in exchange for three years of labor. One bottle of purified water to buy out your exploration earnings. Here, human lives can be assigned a value, violence can be insured against, and even an S-rank mutant beast has to work as my collection agent.
When the old-time raiders tearfully clutched their “Installment Repayment Agreement,” and the shelter managers begged me to buy their weapons, I finally set down my tablet and pushed up my nonexistent glasses.
“Welcome to my apocalypse. Here, my ledger decides everything, from fairness to life and death.”
